Leviathan
by lizoftheinfinite
Summary: Kyle/Stan, Kyle/psychopathic, parasitic, soul-eating angel. (Post apocalypse, dark).


I say I'm never going to write fanfiction again and then I do, ahahahah.

The worst part is that it's a WIP and I have 4546453434 other WIPs.

No, the worst part is the high saturation of angst in the following chapters.

I already have the second chapter written, so if I don't update you have permission to brick me.

1.

The angels have white, soft wings, expressionless, gorgeous faces, and lethal methods of attack.  
They come in spaceships.  
At first, the United Nations is awed. America is gleeful that the angels landed on _their _soil. The town of South Park is unimpressed.  
Various governments try to make treaties. Try to communicate with sign language, with illustrations, with music.  
Trying to figure out what they want, what they're here for.  
Turns out they're only here to feed.

* * *

(Perhaps "angel" is an exaggeration.)

* * *

Kyle's breath comes in gasping, strained sobs, and his muscles scream with overexertion, and every footsteps throbs through his body as the wounds on his feet continue to bleed, but he doesn't stop running, can't stop running, because he _doesn't want to die, goddamn it_.  
He leaps over chunks of plaster, nearly crashes into the fallen lamppost on the corner of Brown and 13th. His bare feet stub into the cracks of the street. He trips, stumbles, regains his balance.  
"Help!" he screams. "Somebody help me!"  
No response other than his voice echoing against the walls. There's no one in this whole town, except for _Craig and_ _his fucking gang, _of course.  
He ducks into an alley, weaves through rotting trash. A shortcut past the crumbled-down remains of his school could take him out to the woods and to the tiny shack he's been hiding in with Stan.  
He doesn't take the shortcut. Can't risk these monsters getting close to Stan.  
So he keeps on running.  
The angel catches him less than five minutes into the chase. Metallic fingers grip his arms, tightly enough to bruise. He screams again, tries to writhe free, but it throws him into an abandoned car.  
Something metallic and sharp stabs into his shoulder, piercing straight in and out. This time he keeps on screaming, and screaming, and _screaming_ as the angel climbs on top of him.  
Its wings flutter around him, almost cocooning him. He shrieks for as long as he can before its lips close over his and it starts to chew.  
He's helpless. Powerless. The thing is stronger than him, stronger by a lot, and its grip tightens every time he starts to fight.  
It gnaws into him, tearing away shreds of something inside him, making gulping, slurping, smacking noises.  
What it's eating, no one knows. They've never been able to figure out. It's not something tangible, but it's certainly not his _soul _or anything like that.  
It hurts too goddamn much to be his soul.  
The angel pulls its mouth back, and he screams, starts fighting it again, doesn't care how much the movement twists the metal jabbed into his arm or how its grip starts to bruise down to the bone.  
He saw the Youtube videos in the days before the power went off. He's crept in street corners, watching, shivering, trying not to vomit as angels attacked other screaming humans.  
He knows what comes next, knows that if he doesn't get free get free _now_ he's going to die.  
The angel puts its lips back on his, more gently this time. He screams into its mouth.  
Slowly, something hard and cold touches his tongue. He kicks out, catches it in the legs, but it gives no reaction. The hard and cold things increase, until his mouth is swollen full and he can't breathe.  
The angel pulls back again and he jerks up as far as he can, starting to spit the things out. It closes a hand over his mouth before more than a few can clatter to the pavement. They're white, crystalline, the size of pebbles.  
Its hand stays clenched over his mouth. The other grabs his nose, pinching it shut.  
He starts to suffocate. His blood roars in his ears.  
_I won't, I won't_-  
The thing is staring at him without expression, its eyes milky and translucent. Its only defining feature is a scar across its cheek, light gray and easy to miss. Otherwise it looks exactly like the rest of the angels.  
It'll let him die. It'll let him die right here on the pavement in the middle of the street for his body to rot or Stan to find.  
_I won't-_  
He glares up at it. It continues to stare back.  
He lungs are screaming and his vision is fading and he doesn't want to die, _goddamn it,_ he really, really doesn't want to die.  
He swallows.  
The rocks go down his throat, stabbing. The thing doesn't pull its hand back to let him breath until most of them are churning in his stomach.  
He inhales, gasping, and starts to scream again from the _pain in his fucking shoulder _even though his voice is too hoarse to really make much noise at all.  
The angel gets up off him, then grabs him by both shoulders and _wrenches _him off the metal. His vision goes white for a few seconds. When it comes back it's wrapping careful strips of cloth ripped from his jacket around the wound.  
It sets him on his feet. He wobbles. It catches him.  
His thoughts are dull, far away, and it's hard to process anything but the translucent skin and the pain in his throat.  
It stares at him for a few more seconds, then turns and walks away. Feathers brush him then fade along with the angel, dissolving into the shadows.  
His blood is pounding on his head. It doesn't take him with it, doesn't coerce or force.  
It knows he'll come running soon enough.  
He crouches down and starts to pick up the crystalline rocks, stuffing them into his ragged pocket. He's going to need them.

* * *

Kyle starts lying the second he enters the shack.  
"Yeah, yeah, I know I look like shit." He drops his backpack on the foldout card table. "Craig's gang jumped me, stole my shoes since I hadn't picked up any supplies yet. I still managed to find an apartment that hasn't been scavenged yet."  
"Craig's gang jumped you," Stan repeats.  
He's staring, frozen, the only movement comes from his fingers, which are clenching and unclenching. He takes a step towards Kyle, stops.  
"Craig's gang jumped you."  
"Yeah. Those assholes are getting worse." Kyle pulls off his jacket, wincing as the movement jars his shoulder, and drapes it over their single chair. The shack is cramped, small enough to make the heat from the stove suffocating.  
"I got pasta," he says with false cheer. "And I found some energy bars, too, and dried apples, and-"  
"Kyle," Stan says quietly. "Stop it. I'm not stupid."  
"I _said_ it was Craig-"  
"Shut up. If it was Craig they would've stolen your backpack."  
"They didn't-"  
"Shut up-"  
"I-"  
"Shut up!" Stan almost screams. Kyle shuts up.  
"If it was just Craig, then I want you to eat something. Right now. One of those fucking energy bars you risked your life for."  
He crosses over to Kyle, fishes one out of his backpack, and crams it into his face.  
"Eat it," he says.  
Kyle takes the energy bar, looks down at it, licks his lips.  
He shakes his head.  
"_Goddamn it_," Stan says. He stuffs the energy bar back into Kyle's backpack and puts his head into his hands. _"Goddamn it._"

* * *

"So what really happened?"  
They're sitting on the ground, backs against the rotting wooden wall. Stan is eating. Kyle is not.  
"Craig and his gang really did corner me," he says. "But it wasn't for my shoes."  
Outside, the light is dying, the snow is falling thick. It's almost peaceful, except for the screaming of the wind. Before, they could turn up the thermostat. Now they have to stack wood by the fireplace every night, or they'll freeze to death in their sleep.  
"They were trying to get into an apartment over on fourth street - the Bergs had a generator or something before the Invasion and Craig's guys were freezing their asses off. But there was an angel there, looking around for humans. So they tricked me to come over there and knocked me out. When I woke up they'd taken off my shoes and cut up my feet so I couldn't run." He swallows. "They were dragging me towards the apartment. Bait. They let me go so I could lead it away from the apartment."  
"It caught you," Stan says softly.  
"Yeah," Kyle says. "Yeah, it caught me."  
He shivers. The heat is seeping out through the cracks in the wall (the shack was put together by a crazy old man before the Invasion and has never been able to hold up against Colorado winter) but even still, with the fire going, he shouldn't be this cold.  
His teeth keep chattering. Stan hugs him, hard, then pulls away.  
"You have to go their compound," Stan says. "Kyle, Kyle, you have to go-"  
Kyle jerks. "Are you _kidding_ me? There's no way-"  
"You'll die if you don't-"  
"Have you forgotten what happened to Ike? I'll die if I do!"  
They both flinch. Kyle looks away.  
There used to be five of them here; there used to be Ike and Fillmore and Shelley.  
"They don't kill everyone," Stan says. "There's no way they kill everyone. You know there's not. And I'd rather-"  
Kyle thinks of finding his little brother's body sprawled and half-rotting on the side of the highway, his arms and legs and torso splotched with bruises, his ribcage torn out.  
"I don't want to watch you starve to death," Stan says quietly. "Don't make me go through that. Not like with mom and dad."  
Kyle wants to meet his gaze, but he can't.  
"We'll figure something out," he says. "There were some on the ground and that should hold me out for a while, and maybe I didn't get it that badly, maybe I'll be able to eat something, maybe-"  
"Stop," Stan says.  
"And it'll be okay, I swear to god, I'll figure something out, I swear-"  
"Kyle, you have to-"  
"Shut up!"  
Silence. Kyle is still shivering, his arms shaking.  
Cold. So fucking cold.  
Like part of him's been eaten away.  
"We'll figure something out," he says. "We _will_. But I'm not going to their compound."

* * *

Stan takes the gun.  
It's snowing like it's the end of the world and the wind is sharp enough to sear cuts into exposed skin and it's fucking cold as fuck but he goes out into the night, anyway, AK-47 strapped over shoulder.  
It won't do anything against an angel. They heal in second, skin twisting back together in time to lunge out and grab you and latch their teeth into you. But it's plenty dangerous against a human.  
Craig's gang has already moved into the Bergs' apartment. They've set up tripwire around the door, and coming in from the roof Stan catches several escape routes made out of windows, fire escapes shifted to allow easy access and easy flee in event of an attack.  
He uses one of these routes to sneak inside. He holds the gun in front of him, hands trembling, as he sneaks through the hallways.  
The Bergs were rich, and their generator well-made to be running even two months after the power went dead everywhere else. It's warm inside, and lit by luminescent lights.  
Craig's gang is in the kitchen and living room, drinking, laughing, playing cards. There are piles of weapons on the tables - knives, handguns, some heavier artillery - enough for everyone to be a walking armory that still won't do anything against the angels.  
Stan points the assault rifle at Craig. The room goes silent as they notice him.  
Craig looks unimpressed.  
"What is it, Marsh? Boyfriend come back a little worse for wear?"  
"_Shut up!_" Stan screams. _"Shut up, you fucking asshole! Aren't you sorry for what you did to him?_"  
Craig rises from the couch, sets down his can of beer.  
"I invited the five of you to join when this shit first went down," he says, dusting off his hands. "It's not my fault you refused. And now you're the only one left."  
"Kyle's still alive."  
"Not for long if he doesn't get his ass down to the compound."  
Stan doesn't ask how Craig knows the angel got to Kyle. Craig knows everything that goes on in and around the remnants of South Park. He has his gang set up as spies, he has the littlies run patrols in exchange for supplies. He always knows when there's an angel in town.  
He knew going to the Bergs' apartment was dangerous, and he didn't care; he had someone to sacrifice.  
Stan's hands shake harder. He tries to keep the gun aimed at Craig, finds it's too heavy.  
Butters comes forward from the crowd, hands raised. He pushes the end of the gun down so it's pointing at the ground.  
"Stan," he says.  
Stan feels like he's falling apart.  
"Stan. Go back to Kyle. He needs you right now."  
Stan keeps the gun in his hands, defensively, as he backs out of the apartment. Craig continues to look unrepentant. Butters has the cruelty to look sorry for him.

* * *

"Stan? Where were you?" Kyle mumbles, rolling over on the thin mattress they share. As the weeks passed and the temperature dropped, their inhibitions about sharing body heat fell away. He's shivering in the dark, clutching at the blankets. Stan sets the assault rifle by the door and climbs into bed next to him.  
"Just had to take a piss," he mutters.  
"Hnnngghh," Kyle says, and buries his freezing nose into Stan's equally freezing shoulder.

* * *

"Stan?"  
"Yeah?" Stan says into the darkness.  
"I'm going to fix this," he says. "I swear to god I'll fix this."  
Stan says nothing. Kyle goes back to sleep.

* * *

Morning. The wound on his shoulder has started to throb in deep, rhythmic aches. He doesn't take any of their morphine stash- that's for when they're in real trouble - but he does ask Stan to rewrap it.  
Stan goes out to salvage more firewood after breakfast. He lingers next to Kyle before leaving him.  
Fillmore shot himself in the head less than an hour after the angels got him.  
Kyle ate nothing at breakfast. Just the smell of dried fruit made bile rise in his throat. Now he forces himself to take a few bites, hoping against goddamn hope that it'll be okay.  
He vomits everything up five minutes later.  
He cleans it, then finds their machete to go down to Stark's pond and cut out the ice for water. His stomach growls. He's lost twenty pounds since the Invasion, his ribs down to xylophone status, and that was just from shortages that came along with the loss of civilization.  
Now he genuinely has nothing to eat.  
He thinks about the half-dozen crystalline pebbles he salvaged from the attack last night. How long will those even last? A day?  
By the time he gets back from Stark's Pond, a few of the littlies are waiting for him at the shack.  
"Hey," Kyle says. He recognizes them, Nancy and Jeremy and Dana. They're shivering, hugging themselves. The littlies usually travel in groups of dozens before regrouping for the night in temporary shacks set up somewhere in the woods. He's never seen just three on their own before. He opens the door, lets them inside. They keep on shivering, saying nothing as their bodies warm.  
"What's up?" he asks, setting the bucket of ice next to the fire to defrost. They don't say anything for a few seconds.  
Then Dana speaks up:  
"We heard 'bout what happened to you."  
Kyle doesn't say anything.  
"We're sorry, real sorry. And we're mad at Craig. That motherfucker d'serves to die." She looks up at him, her eight-year-old eyes filled with murderous rage. "On'y we can't really do much 'gainst him, not right now, not without a plan. But the three of us are mad, and we're gonna do something. But we're not eatin' the food he gives us right now, because we're mad at him."  
"Ah," Kyle says. "Well, I appreciate that." Although he's probably going to die before a trio of elementary-school kids can do anything to take down Craig. "I guess you're here for food?"  
She nods. The littlies' leader has a strict rule about scavenging in the city. Angels actively hunt down children, so kids younger than ten or so can't stay in one place for long before they're caught. Even going into the apartments downtown to try and find sustenance is too risky.  
He gives her and the other two a loaf of bread and the last of their energy bars. Then Stan comes back and hands a few pieces of firewood to Jeremy. They thank him, promise to "kill that motherfucker", and leave.  
"What was that all about?" Stan asks. Kyle explains.  
By the time he's helped Stan rekindle the fire, his shivering has gotten worse. He sits by the flames, putting his hands as close as he dares.

* * *

He runs out of the crystalline stones after a day. His stomach starts to cramp with hunger. He tries to eat normal food again, vomits again. Doesn't try again. It smells like rot, not like food at all, and he knows whatever the angel has done to him has changed his body irrevocably.  
Stan starts to panic, constantly hovering. There's nothing he can do. Within just a few days, Kyle is curling up on his side, exhausted by hunger. Starving to death.

* * *

They say Mysterion can kill the angels.

* * *

They also say Mysterion has fangs, and that he can fly, and that he's not human at all, rather some hulking, time-traveling monster from both the future and the past. But you know what they say.


End file.
